


Exchange

by narsus



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Implied Incest, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-22
Updated: 2011-03-24
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:42:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/narsus/pseuds/narsus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Interactions between brothers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. John

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat and obviously in the genesis of it all to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John observes, deduces and comes to some worrying conclusions about the nature of certain sibling relationships.

The air smells strangely of cologne, expensive cologne of the sort that would never deign to be called aftershave. There's also a clammy feel to it which is enough to make John worry as he mounts the stairs, though it's probably another one of Sherlock's experiments and the door of the bathroom _is_ open. Voices carry from inside. Sherlock and... Mycroft, John recognises as he gets closer. Sherlock sounds bored but his tone is missing that usual antagonistic edge to it. Mycroft... just sounds like Mycroft. John's about to call out a greeting when he reaches the point in the turn of the stair where he can actually see into the bathroom and the sight before him stops him in his tracks.

Mycroft is sitting on the closed toilet casually but Sherlock is lying in the bath, apparently in the process of actually bathing. John doesn't catch what Sherlock says next but whatever it is he says it with a challenging look that prompts Mycroft to stand up and move over to the bath where he seats himself carefully on the edge. Mycroft's body blocks whatever it is that he does with one hand but when he trails it behind him John sees that Mycroft has his fingers in the water. For his part Sherlock sinks further into the water causing his bent knees to poke up further. Mycroft trails a wet finger over one kneecap and Sherlock's expression turns predatory, at which point John decides that he ought to go pay a visit to Mrs Hudson and catch up for a little while.

After a comfortable hour of tea and biscuits and a little celebrity gossip John decides that it'll be safe to return to the flat. He meets Mycroft on the stairs and is treated to a dose of Mycroft's bland courtesy as the other makes his way out, apparently quite preoccupied. When he gets upstairs he finds Sherlock in the living room gloating over a package. Sherlock is wearing his dressing-gown but the bare leg that's revealed by the careless fall of the material as he slouches on the couch suggests that he's entirely naked underneath. He holds up a brand new Blackberry for John's inspection.

"Occasionally, my brother is actually useful for something." He opinions acidly.

 

John manages to put not only the implication but all the clues that will doubtless lead him to the implication out of his head for at least a month afterwards. His denial is coming along quite well and he's almost convinced himself that what he's seen doesn't imply what it would for anybody else because the Holmes brothers are just that odd when fresh evidence is thrown at him.

Sherlock being Sherlock gets into yet another scuffle with a would-be criminal and while he's personally no worse for the wear his clothing bears the brunt of the damage. In particular his ludicrously purple shirt which he seems to be fairly fond of. It's torn far too badly to even attempt mending, if Sherlock ever even entertained the notion, and his prickly disposition increases as a result. John offers to buy him a new one but the offer is met with more scorn than usual prompting John to suspect what the label still attached to the shredded mess in the bin confirms: it's hardly something he can afford to replace despite the best of intentions.

A few days later Sherlock surprises John one evening by entering the living room wearing jeans and a jumper instead of his usually more formal attire. The jeans are slim cut of course and the jumper is that same ridiculous shade of purple with a thick rolled polo neck that does away with the need for a scarf, and both items are also probably far more expensive that John could possibly imagine.

"I'm going out." Sherlock announces to the room as he pulls on his coat.  
"Case?" John starts to stand up, ready to follow.  
"Mycroft." Sherlock replies sourly.  
"I thought you-"  
Sherlock shoots him a look filled with animosity.  
"Right." John coughs. "Don't wait up." He mutters to himself.  
"I'm spending the night." Sherlock turns away.  
"Oh. Don't you need to..." John trails off hopelessly at the inanity of the question.  
"Mycroft will provide anything I need." Sherlock answers the question anyway, hesitating a moment with his hand on the door handle before briskly flinging the door wide and rushing off down the stairs.

Sherlock doesn't return before John goes to work that morning and he's still surprisingly absent when John gets back. It takes all of John's self-control not to ring Mycroft and demand an explanation, regardless of what the explanation actually is. The evidence is mounting and John doesn't like the conclusions he's coming to. In fact what disturbs him most is the routine manner in which things are happening, something that suggests that they've been carrying on like this for years. It casts Sherlock's antagonism towards his brother in a wholly new and unexpectedly unpleasant light.

John's still brooding over the matter when Sherlock returns, arms full of shopping bags bearing the names of various expensive menswear outfitters.  
"Wha-"  
"I went shopping." For once it's Sherlock stating the obvious.  
"Yes..." John draws out the word in a mixture of confusion and wariness.  
Sherlock frowns at John's response. "Mycroft took me shopping." He adds as if that explains everything, letting the bags drop to the floor and turning towards the kitchen.  
"You know, when Harry gave me her phone I didn't have to _do_ anything."  
Sherlock stops in his tracks and peers over his shoulder at John with narrowed eyes. "I don't have to _do_ anything."  
"No?"  
"Mycroft is always trying to give me things. It's so tedious." He smirks. "Coffee?"  
"Uh, sure."

John sinks back down onto the couch, eyes falling on the pile of bags dropped just inside the doorway. Either the Holmes brothers are a lot stranger that he's realised or there's something else going on there, something he's evidently missing. Whatever it is he isn't sure he even knows where to begin when it comes to figuring it all out.


	2. Mycroft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Convention morality, along with convention itself, tends to be fairly arbitrary as far as Mycroft is concerned.

The first text arrives at an ungodly hour of the morning, earlier than even he is usually awake. Mycroft raises his head to stare at the flashing light on his bedside table blearily, curses softly and then lies back down. The text is from Sherlock of course because if it was urgent, if it was anything specific, it would set off an alert tone and Special Branch would be all but beating down his door. They’d done just that only last week, more or less broken into his house, bundled him into a car and driven to an Air Force base at the sort of speed that usually got people killed. He’d had to dress in the car, trying to pull on his clothing in some sort of order while four officers had crowded in and alternatively rested hands on their guns or braced them against the car roof just in case something detonated under them. He’d dealt with the situation as calmly as possible really, but once the plane had levelled out in the air and he’d been allowed to take off his seatbelt he’d stood up and screamed. He’d spent the rest of the transatlantic journey sniping at everyone and everything in a way that might have worried even his brother. Of course that sort of thing was only a precaution and, as per usual, when they’d touched down they’d been given the all clear. So he’d refused to get off the plane, demanded that they take him directly home and spent the time before takeoff on the phone snarling nastily at various superiors. They’re use to it by now. He’s well aware that a certain Brigadier-General openly refers to him as a drama queen after all.

The memory of that harrowing trip is enough to put him in a bad mood when he reaches for his phone. Of course he could ignore it but it might, just possibly, be urgent. Sherlock has been known to resort to text at the most inopportune of times and there’s always the off chance that he’s in some sort of danger that requires he not speak aloud. That thought spikes a vague sense of worry as Mycroft holds the phone up in front of his face, squinting against the backlit text.

 _Need new phone. Urgent. Old model boring. S_

Mycroft considers, briefly, sending a reply then, at first, decides against it. If Sherlock is sending him texts at this hour to demand a new mobile because his current model isn’t fashionable enough then he’s probably feeling talkative. It’s best not to send a reply then or there’s every chance that he’ll spend the rest of the night typing with his thumbs. On one hand ignoring Sherlock is never wise and might result in a barrage of messages, deliberately timed to disrupt his sleep, on the other, if he replies, then perhaps Sherlock might decide that now is the time for conversation, which will disrupt his sleep anyway.

 _I was in NY last week. You should have said something then. M_

Mycroft prefers to type in full sentences if he can at all help it. He’s always found the English language expressive enough that it seems a crime to butcher it. Even Sherlock’s abrupt way of speaking sometimes rankles.

 _NY y?_

He glares at the screen. Sherlock knows this sort of garbage typing annoys him. Mycroft has enough abbreviations to deal with in day to day life that extra ones really do offend him.

 _Sorry. Being silly. See you tomorrow. With my new phone._

A reply is of course in order since Sherlock’s sudden bout of civility really ought not to be so much of a surprise as to earn him the last word.

 _Good night, baby brother. Try not to get into any trouble before I arrive._

 

The next morning Mycroft makes good on his promise to finish several tasks by the end of the day and leaves orders that said tasks should be reported as complete at various times in the afternoon. He does make a very short phonecall to the man who, in a regular organisational structure, would be called his superior but he doesn’t request time off: he demands it in the petulant tones of a mistress rather than an employee. Request granted he goes down to the underground practice range to alert his bodyguard to his imminent absence from the building. As a simple mental exercise he tries to remember her real name on the way down the stairs but, even if he could at this moment in time remember it, he’d never dare use it anyway. She regularly goes by ‘Anthea’ after all, because her real name means ‘unconquered’ in Sanskrit, a gift from grandparents at the borders of the Empire, and she feels that it would make her true role a little too obvious. Of course she objects to the idea of his wandering off by himself but they quickly reach a compromise, involving excessive surveillance and a small battalion of sharpshooters.

When he arrives at Baker Street, Sherlock’s new phone in hand, it’s not Sherlock who answers the door at all, nor John. The elderly lady in a very proper but fuchsia dress looks him up and down suspiciously, though the suspicion’s mostly buried under the permanently fixed look of concern she’s wearing. She looks like she’s going to show him up so he informs her that he knows the way, which is somehow the wrong thing to do since the worried furrows across her forehead only deepen.

“John’ll be back soon.” She says, as he moves past her.  
“I’m sure he will.” He smiles, in what he hopes is a congenial fashion, and starts to climb the stairs.  
“Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?” She mutters to herself, sounding truly distressed.

Before he reaches the top of the stairs he’s discerned the scent of the Molton Brown gingerlily bath gel that Sherlock prefers. The fact that the air is clammy with moisture and the scent is dispersed over quite a range suggests that Sherlock is in the bath and not the shower, and if he’s in the bath, with the door open, then he’s in a rare, accommodating mood. At the top of the stairs Mycroft’s surmise is borne out. Sherlock lies supine in the bath, eyes closed. Only the fact that his hands rest on the rim of the tub suggests a readiness for movement, indicative of the fact that his languid pose _is_ only a pose. Mycroft smiles to himself, takes in the carefully arranged tableaux with a glance, and continues purposefully onwards to the living room. He could, of course, wait in the living room with the phone until Sherlock got annoyed enough to start attempting to attract his attention, but that would be petty and really very pointless. Mycroft likes to think that he’s above such ridiculous games, even if he does, admittedly, have a flair for the dramatic. It won’t do him any good to ignore Sherlock anyway because if he was going to ignore his brother he wouldn’t have made the trip in the first place.

Despite all reasoning to the contrary, there is the tiniest flair of outraged priority in the back of his mind as he steps across the threshold into the bathroom. Some tiny, dying, part of his morality tries to claw its way to the surface as he glances down at his brother in the bath. The water is tinged faintly green and whatever suds and bubbles the bath gel might have produced are a far cry from providing any modesty. Sherlock opens his eyes and smirks, and Mycroft concedes that, from an aesthetic point of view, his brother might be quite an intriguing study. Somewhere, in the back of his mind, Mycroft fancies that any sense he ever had of conventional morality chooses that exact moment in time to curl up and die.

The questionable propriety of the situation aside, all they do for the next half hour is talk. Mycroft seats himself reasonably comfortably on the closed toilet lid and Sherlock remains in his bath, occasionally flicking at the bubbles on the surface of the water. They discuss Sherlock’s latest case, or rather Sherlock talks about it in bored tones while Mycroft prompts him with questions.

“You’re not really listening to me anyway.” Sherlock actually sounds weary for a change.  
“I’m cataloguing your reactions, which you’ve noticed already.”  
“Why, Mycroft? Most of my cases are dangerous.”  
“No, not really. Not when you’re in _reasonably_ good health.”  
“Meaning?” Some of the usual annoyance begins to creep back into Sherlock’s voice.  
“You have at least five minor abrasions, four surface lacerations that I can see from this angle and you’ve hurt your back.”  
“Only _four_ surface lacerations?” Sherlock lifts his chin challengingly.

They’ve both heard the footsteps on the stairs, are aware of the fact that their privacy will be intruded upon in mere moments, but the challenge hangs in the air between them and Mycroft is no more willing to back down than Sherlock is. Mycroft stands up and crosses to the bathtub. He seats himself carefully on the edge and dips his fingers into the water to trace along the red mark along his brother’s side. Sherlock doesn’t flinch and Mycroft lets his fingers trail through the water idly. John, because it is John by the footsteps and the breathing and the rustle of clothing, stands motionless on the landing. Sherlock sinks down further, knees poking up, and Mycroft lifts his hand from the water, lightly brushing his fingertips over a bruised knee.

“Maybe you ought to kiss it better?”  
Mycroft is about to answer the generalised maliciousness in Sherlock’s voice when the sound of John’s feet rapidly pounding back down the stairs catches him off guard.  
Sherlock, likewise, looks more than a little confused.  
“Inappropriate.”  
“What?”  
“Nothing.” Mycroft smiles, blandly.  
Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “I could grab you by the tie and pull you in.”  
“But you won’t.”  
“Won’t I?”  
“I don’t think you’d want me landing on top of you while you’re...” Mycroft lets his gaze trail eloquently down Sherlock’s body.  
Sherlock bites at the inside of his lip.  
Mycroft presses his lips together in an attempt to hide his smirk and reaches down into the water again.  
Sherlock holds perfectly still, despite the finger that Mycroft strokes along his thigh.  
“My apologies, that was only a mole.” Mycroft sounds distinctly insincere.  
Sherlock snorts, then turns his face away from Mycroft, closing his eyes.  
Mycroft takes that as suggestion enough that he ought to finish cataloguing his brother’s injuries.

 

Thankfully, none of Sherlock’s injuries being particularly severe, Mycroft is able to leave his brother to his own devices for the rest of the day. He therefore has a remarkably free afternoon in which to do absolutely nothing unless he actually wants to. What he does do is go home, take a shower, put a pre-cooked supermarket meal into the oven and sit at the kitchen counter, in his dressing gown, with some music on and a very weak scotch. Sherlock doesn’t realise quite how weak Mycroft takes his drinks because Sherlock himself drinks overtly cloying cocktails, so he thinks that anything where he can even moderately taste the alcohol is tremendously strong. In the privacy of his own home Mycroft mixes his drink with both supermarket own brand cola and water on top, and as the liquid level goes down he just keeps adding more water. His phone is on the counter but it remains blissfully silent. He’s even considering turning it off entirely when suddenly, predictably, it starts to ring. A glance down at the caller ID reveals that it’s his superior’s private number at least which prompts Mycroft to just turn the music up and ignore his phone’s urgent chirruping, but when the phone does stop ringing, after a duration that would indicate his voicemail has picked up, it only starts again.

Shuffling through his music selection, Mycroft does toy with the idea of picking up the phone with “Angels Thantos” on at full volume in the background to express his displeasure before reminding himself that that would be very unprofessional of him and would doubtless meet with imminent disapproval from his superior. Shuffling to “Rain of Blass Petals” as a softer alternative instead, he turns the volume up and answers the phone, fully expecting to have orders to turn the volume down barked at him. Surprisingly, his loud music choice doesn’t trigger the usual, predictably overbearing, response and Mycroft finds that he’s being invited to dinner on entirely less than formal grounds.

“I shan’t wear something nice.” He says, then hangs up.

It’s going to be one of _those_ dinners then. An informal meeting involving himself, his superior and more food that he could possibly eat. Mycroft has yet to work out exactly why the man seems intent on keeping him plump. He’d lost drastic amounts of weight recently, only to be greeted by a steady supply of rich pastries at the office and the occasional elaborate hamper at home to add to that.

“I can’t sit around eating mille-feuille all day. I’m not Marie Antoinette.” He’d said once, a few years ago, only to receive an entire box of mille-feuille the very next day. Since then he’s been reliably informed that, in his youth, the general had been quite well known for his penchant for ‘nicely rounded’ girls. Of course Mycroft isn’t, by any stretch of the imagination, a girl but he does sometimes wonder, both at the general’s behaviour, and his own. Perhaps, Mycroft supposes, he’s deliberately letting the man recapture the heady romances of youth: perhaps he’s enjoying playing the flighty, yet supremely competent, Bond girl for a change, because that role usually belongs to his brother.

In the end he does wear ‘something nice’, which for him consists of a dark, two piece suit, a shirt that isn’t quite as dark, with French cuffs, and a pale cravat. The modest slim band of gold that usually adorns the fourth finger of his right hand goes the way of the pocket-watch: both being judged unsuitable for the evening. The evening, after all, will be entirely won or lost in the staging. He will be petulant and coquettish tonight, indirect and wheedling in his manner, and if he plays his hand as he ought, then he’ll come away from it all secure in the knowledge that a few of those, constant, unnecessary, loose ends will be tied up for him before dawn.

 

Post uneventful dinner, which transpired exactly as he’d supposed it would, Mycroft is half way across the pavement towards the waiting car when he catches sight of a familiar figure out of the corner of his eye. Sherlock leans against the brickwork outside the restaurant. He isn’t doing anything remarkable but his entire manner suggests that he might do, for the right price at least. Recognising the prompt, the role it suggests that he play, Mycroft strolls lazily over to Sherlock, knowing smile in place. Sherlock pushes himself away from the wall, meeting Mycroft in a complete omission of personal space. Their expressions mirror each other’s as Sherlock raises his palms to Mycroft’s chest and Mycroft slides an arm around Sherlock’s waist, beneath the billowing coat and up under the jumper. Neither of them need language to qualify where Sherlock will be spending the night: they’ve rehearsed the stage directions all their lives.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name ‘Aparajita’ is a fairly popular female name, though it’s also borne by at least one male historical figure.
> 
> “Angels Thantos” is a track from _Silent Hill 2_ while “Rain of Blass Petals” is from _Silent Hill 3_.


	3. Sherlock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Their interaction may well be termed inappropriate but Sherlock doesn’t care for the notion.

There are limits to Sherlock’s patience, and at the current time Mycroft is deliberately treading on his last nerve. There’s been a new Blackberry released, four days ago, and Mycroft has yet to send one over, nor has he acknowledged that fact. Four whole days, practically a working week, and Sherlock has grown increasingly irritated as the days have progressed. It doesn’t matter that he has two covers, an extra battery and, probably, a whole host of other accessories for his current model. There is a new one, which is, by his definition, more functional, more fashionable and, quite possibly, simply prettier than his old one. These are perfectly sensible reasons for him to want one and yet, for some inexplicable reason, Mycroft is denying him the very object of his desire. Of course Mycroft must be doing it deliberately, it must be some perverse game to see which of them concedes to the obvious first, and that’s enough to set Sherlock scowling for the rest of the day.

Unfortunately, by midnight his resolve is wavering and no amount of beef tea, Green & Blacks chocolate or online searching in an attempt to uncover the, supposedly, hinted at identity of J. M. Barrie’s Captain Hook, is helping any. After a further few hours spent looking over portrayals of Captain Hook, Sherlock comes to the conclusion that it wasn’t that he wanted to be a pirate in his youth, but instead that he’d rather fancied the idea of being carried off by a dashing gentleman who’d turned to a life of crime. None of which helps the situation any. Presumably other boys had wanted to have adventures with Peter Pan, or at least boys other than Mycroft. Sherlock can’t imagine Mycroft having wanted to do anything other than set up a decent economic structure and quite possibly Neverland’s first bank if given the chance. Thoughts turning to his brother again it only makes sense to yield to impulse and send the text that he’s been itching to send all day. Surprisingly, Mycroft actually replies.

Mycroft is hardly a creature of whimsy but there is a distinct touch of humour to his admonishments, at least until Sherlock lets his typing dissolve into abbreviations, which always annoys Mycroft for some reason. Sherlock supposes that the cause is work related, not that he knows exactly what it is Mycroft does in his minor role for the British government. For all his talk of Mycroft's integral position vis-a-vis various international agencies, Sherlock doesn't know with any certainty what it is that Mycroft does. He knows that 'Anthea' is, if not Special Branch, then something in a similar capacity and that she is never unarmed. He also suspects that her orders may well have been to execute John quietly should she assess him as a threat to Mycroft before their initial meeting. Likewise, he knows that John wasn't _just_ a field medic and that whatever he really is or was, was judged to be potential threat enough that Anthea had to assess John first before he came into contact with Mycroft. There's certain to be more detail to be uncovered if Sherlock goes looking for it, but he's not that interested in the details, and has been around that sort of thing long enough that it the idea of secrecy itself has long lost its allure. All of which leads to his feeling not quite as wilful as usual and only moderately silly, so he apologises for his behaviour, which in of itself is probably a surprise to Mycroft anyway.

Sherlock is in the mood to be somewhat foolish at any rate. There have been some hard cases of late, of the sort that wear on the body rather than the mind, and while he doesn't mind the legwork in the slightest, it can, at times, be a little tiring. His most recent case for instance, had involved scrabbling over fences and climbing over rooftops in an entirely too fatiguing fashion. Even John, for all his usual focus when it comes to the physical chase, had been relieved when their urban exploration had come to a conclusion this time. Sherlock himself is covered in cuts and bruises, his body aches and, from the fairly localised soreness, he supposes that he may well have strained the muscles in his back. It's hardly serious but it still manages to be a faintly annoying condition. He's already taken painkillers which have entirely numbed him to the steady ache, and probably exacerbated the problem because, not being able to feel anything, he's been less than careful in his sprawling about awkwardly on the couch. At least, he reflects, he's more or less exhausted enough to sleep now, and by the time he wakes up, Mycroft will have delivered his new phone. In fact, from the tone of it, it's perfectly likely that Mycroft will bring the phone in person. The very thought of which is enough to set Sherlock plotting in earnest until sleep begins to overtake him and the sound of the early morning birds outside is enough to persuade him to go to bed.

 

The next day he doesn't wake till lunchtime, which barely gives him time enough to put his plan into action. Knowing Mycroft, he will have been to work, attended to last minute arrangements, setting up a sequence of events that will trigger the release of reports and memos throughout the rest of the day, and then will have either gone home briefly to indulge in a momentary respite from human interaction or have ordered his driver to take something of a scenic route Baker Street to achieve the same effect. Mycroft values silence and stillness, when he can find time enough to indulge in it, after all. It's always struck Sherlock as particularly curious, almost as if Mycroft uses those extra few minutes of silence to reset his programming or, probably more accurately, switch over between operating systems so that his work persona shuts down and his elder brother one loads instead. Which is to say that Mycroft will be more inclined to indulge Sherlock's whims by the time he arrives, and far less likely to admonish him for his usual petulance.

Of course in setting his plan to work, or rather the preparation there of, Sherlock encounters the inevitable delays and inconveniences that always hamper the smoothest of execution. The bath will not fill fast enough, he can't find the scented bath gel that Mycroft prefers to smell on his skin, his clothing takes too long to remove, the tie of his dressing-gown is knotted and so on in a conspiracy of the inanimate against him. His body, similarly, conspires against him when he strikes his elbow against the wall, stubs a toe on the bed and suddenly it seems most urgent that he thoroughly brush his teeth. Details, always the details. And Mycroft will notice every last one of them. Having finally shed his clothes, donned his untied dressing-gown and clutching the required Molton Brown container in a vice-like grip, Sherlock tiptoes across the hallway and into the bathroom. It's not necessary of course and there's little genuine stealth to be gained from the undertaking, but he does it anyway, holding his breath has he hurries across the carpet, as if anything else might risk the destruction of his entire plan.

Once in the bathroom everything falls into place simply enough. The bathtub, wonderfully old and thus deep enough to permit a truly indulgent soak, is filled with green-tinted water due to the refraction of the light. Steam rises from the surface and rapidly spreads the scent of gingerlilly when he adds the pink gel to the water. Giving the scent further time to defuse through the open door and into the hallway, Sherlock makes a thorough job of brushing his teeth with bicarb toothpaste, which tastes awful but purports to whiten the teeth. After a moment's hesitation, he hangs his dressing-gown up on the back of the door, careful to leave the door open as he does so. Sliding into the bath causes the already high level of water to rise and rush down the overflow outlet as he leans back in the water. He considers dunking his head under the water to add to the effect briefly, before deciding that it would be a little too much. Instead he lies back further, letting his head rest against the side of the bath, feeling the water dampen the edges of his curls. The effect will be fetching when he sits up after all, with the damp ends of his hair clinging to his skin and letting trickles of water slide down his neck. For all the artifice of the composition, Mycroft's gaze will follow those trails of water hungrily, no matter how well his rational mind acknowledges the trick. Which is exactly the point: Mycroft will recognise Sherlock's artful wiles and yet, nonetheless, be beguiled by them.

Sherlock has been soaking in the water for a mere quarter of an hour when the sound of the doorbell, Mrs Hudson's voice and then a familiar tread on the stairs herald Mycroft's arrival. Mycroft pauses, fractionally, at the top of the stairs, doubtless analysing the scent and the diffusion of moisture in the air, before he carries on to the living room instead. Sherlock sinks down further in the bath, biting his lip and wondering if, for once, he has over-estimated his allure in Mycroft's eyes. He could change tactics easily enough and get out of the bath, appearing in the living room with damp hair, slightly flushed cheeks from the warmth of the water and a very poorly tied dressing-gown. In fact, such a diversion from his original plan might even be more effective at inviting Mycroft's exploratory touch. He's contemplating it, has his hands braced on the side of the bath, ready to leaver himself out, when Mycroft appears in the bathroom doorway.

Their interaction falls into predictable lines. There is something about Mycroft's excessive and somehow hesitant concern that always triggers a certain response. Sherlock's not entirely certain but he suspects that it's the delicate way in which Mycroft makes his point that irritates him the most. He wouldn't let Mycroft order him about, so he likes to think or pretend at any rate, but it certainly would make deflecting his concern somewhat easier. Instead, Mycroft makes pointed comments, always carefully, always consisting of 'I' statements regarding his _feelings_ about the situation. He _wishes_ that Sherlock would be more careful, he's _concerned_ about proceedings, he'd _prefer_ it if Sherlock wouldn't do whatever it is that he's doing. Mycroft never demands anything. His talk is never prescriptive, it's _always_ just a suggestion. Subtlety is the name of the game, diplomacy, tact and the crushing sensation of Mycroft’s will being superimposed, not just on him, but upon all reality. It makes Sherlock feel like a fool, and that makes him petulant and wilful, and stupidly contrary in his determination not to follow what really, at the end of the day, is perfectly sensible advice. Yet for all his irritation, his snipes and jibes, it’s not an unproductive conversation. Mycroft is worried again, of course, but not quite so worried that he isn’t intrigued by Sherlock’s deliberate vulnerability as well, and the careful pressure of Mycroft’s fingers against his skin more than makes up for the rest of it.

John’s would-be intrusion breaks the spell and Sherlock finds that he can’t quite decided if he’s more annoyed at Mycroft for taking up their old squabbling again or John for prompting it. Mycroft calls their intimacy inappropriate, which irritates Sherlock no end, though he refuses to dignify the comment with a response. Instead, to vent his frustration, he threatens to ruin Mycroft’s suit, and it’s a measure of the ease with which Mycroft switches between operating modes when he responds with flirtation, rather than sensible annoyance. With John’s absence, Sherlock does have the luxury of enjoying his brother’s touch, but, having been disrupted, Mycroft appears less focused on their interaction than he had been earlier. While his fingers slide precisely along Sherlock’s injured limbs, his touch light in a way designed to cause frustration, his gaze has turned inwards rather than focusing on the present. It makes it that much harder for Sherlock to enjoy those tender ministration. Mycroft is, more than likely, listening for any indication of John’s return, focusing his intent on what he hears rather than what sees, and while that is a sensible precaution, it rapidly begins to infuriate Sherlock.

That their contact is briefer than Sherlock had anticipated proves his suspicions correct, as does the sound of John passing Mycroft on the stairs as he leaves. Unfortunately, there’s nothing for it but to ignore John’s still somewhat uncomfortable expression, because Sherlock is in no mood to have the conversation that would follow any acknowledgment, on his part, of the situation. He’s also not entirely convinced that, should John attempt to broach the subject, he wouldn’t just try to strangle John out of frustration at Mycroft being driven off. So instead he examines his new phone, which does meet all his requirements superbly, enough so that by the time John does come join him he’s happily gloating over it.

By the evening he’s restless again. There are no new cases to distract him and he can still feel a touch of irritation at John’s earlier interruption. Normally he would simply be content with Mycroft’s attention, with the casual slide of his brother’s hands along his skin, with a mere moment of flirtation, but having been disrupted, their interaction feels less fulfilling than it normally would. John hasn’t even had the decency to stay in and be suitably appalled at Sherlock’s behaviour. Nevertheless, Sherlock decides that he can repay disruption with scandal at some other time. Tonight he’ll seek out Mycroft, which will mean surveying the handful of restaurants that Mycroft might plausibly go to with his supposed superiors, and loitering shamelessly outside the appropriate one. Mycroft’s demeanour gave him away earlier after all, in little tells indicative of his not really having much else to do with his day. Only a handful of his superiors would notice his absence and of those there are even fewer who would make the phonecall that he was evidently anticipating. Regardless of whom he is with, they will only ever take him to certain restaurants anyway, which will narrow the search down considerably. After that, all it will require is casual clothing that will tempt Mycroft to side his hands under the fabric to caress Sherlock’s skin again.

 

A single night is enough to stave off the usual frustrations and the next morning, on the solitary journey home, Sherlock supposes that he won’t find himself craving Mycroft’s company for a long time to come. They may see each other more often, but the rest of the time, all they’ll do is bicker. Which is why Sherlock is genuinely surprised to feel that familiar sensation coiling in his gut when circumstances intervene roughly a month later. In fact, it’s John who prompts his thoughts to stray down that route, with the offer to buy him a replacement for the mangled mess that remains of one of his favourite shirts. He could, of course, replace it himself: his allowance is substantial enough that he rarely has to concern himself with budgeting, even if Mycroft occasionally threatens to reduce said allowance. He has investments in his own name and he could easily go back to the family lawyers and argue the case to have Mycroft’s power of attorney revoked, but he’d prefer not to. Mycroft has a particular faculty for figures and, unlike Sherlock, a genuine interest in the financial markets after all.

John’s unintentional prompting aside, if he does go and demand his brother’s attention, it would also allow for a little theatrical indulgence on his part, to settle the score against John’s interruption last time. That factor noted, it’s easy for Sherlock to make a decision, especially when John’s resulting expressions are entirely gratifying.


End file.
